Ge-Rouge
by Querel
Summary: In the Southland, there's a city way down on the river. Where a wayward young man practices voodoo in the dusk and changes his life forever. Includes elements of dub/noncon and sexual violence.
1. Chapter 1

Mrs. Egbert was not a particularly superstitious woman. A lady born and bred in the privilege and liberal customs of the Lalonde clan, Roxanne had been raised to understand the ins and outs of God's green earth; to pursue knowledge and understanding with a healthy vigor; to devote herself wholeheartedly to her life's purpose. Her father would've claimed her purpose was to continually enrich her life in every possible aspect. Her mother gently offered her own thoughts that Roxanne apply her great resourcefulness in a purely domestic sense. But Roxanne chose a halfway mark and married the charming Jonathan James Egbert a month after she turned nineteen.

Together, with a harmony and devotion unrivaled by any partnership, they increased the production and profitability of the Egbert family's sugar plantation until it was the largest, most successful crop in Orleans Parish. All this while they raised their son John with abounding affection.

Roxanne Egbert knew of the magic of the Bayou. The legends and myths and the loud, alluring ceremonies of the Voodoo practitioners. She put about as much stock into it as he put on her lace gloves in the middle of August. They were stories to tell her son at bedtime for the sake of his curiosity. She'd yet to actually encounter a report on the successes of repeated experimentation with voodoo rituals and so she had no reason to believe any of it.

But on the evening of the Vernal Equinox, when the winter winds had long been suffocated beneath the onset of the engorging sun, Roxanne couldn't shake the feeling that change was about to happen. Not the change of the seasons or even a change of heart, but a change of fate.

That evening the mansion had been vacated by most of its usual company, leaving Mrs. Roxanne Egbert and her eleven-year-old son the only inhabitants. Easter Feasts were well underway and Roxanne—though certainly not one to shy away from the frivolities—had excused herself entirely, claiming she felt ill and so did her son. The earlier luncheon had met them with some improperly prepared entrees. She insisted James attend even though he wanted to stay home and care for his wife and child. Roxanne asked that he go to act on behalf their family and their business.

"But run home to me, darling," she bade him with copious kisses about his face. "I don't rest well outside of your arms."

James Egbert kissed his wife again and again, promising to bring home whatever leftover cakes he could scrounge up. And like that, he departed to the Peixes estate as Roxanne watched from the open bay window of their bedroom.

After consulting the nurse once more—"Simply a matter of indigestion. Ginger tonic for nausea and bed rest."—and kissing her son goodnight, Mrs. Egbert returned to the same window and gazed out at the worn-gravel crossroads that led out of the plantation.

_Dey say dem crossroads is where yah destiny changes…._

Roxanne would often think fondly on the musings of her Mammy. The words rang in her mind with deeper significance that evening, like the church's herald of the Resurrection. For a moment, she thought she spied a man standing at the point of the roads: a silhouette of a dapper gentleman in a top hat and a cane. But the apparition ceased as soon as Roxanne registered it.

The same moment she beheld a great crash from below—the glass of the rear doors shattering.

Roxanne had been taught by James's cousin how to fire a gun. She was quite a skilled shot and there was a rifle in the downstairs hall. But she gave it no thought. Roxanne plundered through her husband's bureau until she found his hunting knife. Straightaway she went to John's room and locked his door from the outside. She then discarded the key down the drain of the closest bathroom sink.

By the time she returned—every nerve trembling in action but her movements smooth as silk—the four intruders had already advanced the stairs. There was no hesitation in Roxanne Egbert's will as she raised the knife and strode straight to the spot where she murdered a man. Just as sure were her steps to the spot where a man murdered her.

And with the darkest red spilling from and about her, soaking through her pearl white dressing gown, with the knife still held tight in her grip, Roxanne prayed with complete sincerity for the first time in her life. Not to God, but to whoever would listen.

_Please…._

_ Please…._

_ Please…._

She looked up into the twinkling mirrors of the chandelier above her.

_Save my son._

Mrs. Egbert did not believe in the old-spoken deities of Voodoo lore. But that night, she became one.


	2. Chapter 2

-Five Years Later : New Orleans, 1930-

Summer was young: not yet in its season and still green with the verdant breaths of May. Even so, the looking glass was barely cool as Dave touched his fingers to it. He searched the reflection, staring potently into his own eyes to find something: answers, secrets, truths, even a shard of apperception. It was not his imagination as the mirror fogged along its circumference, the echoed image of the emporium about him darkening to a point where the shapes began to blend. Dave looked away from the glass and pulled the yellowed sheet over it, hiding the dimension away from him now that it had responded disdainfully.

The worn floorboards creaked with his every step as Dave moved himself to the one well-upholstered chair in the shop, reclining against the high back with a silent sigh and then a deep breath of warmed chamomile. The picked flowers were set on the sill of the only unshaded window, blanketed in the afternoon sunlight, tied with a white ribbon and a folded card with a single word. 'Sweet,' it said in telltale indigo ink. An offering, a farewell gift. Sentiment.

Dave didn't know what to make of the bouquet so he left it on the window sill to perfume the close and sweating space of the emporium. Sentimental though it may have been, Dave did appreciate it and the serenity it brought with each breath. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts fall away, turning his focus to each nerve-ending in his body.

Like fingers trailing across his skin, Dave let his awareness of his own body wander. From the worn, softened fabric of his slacks against his legs to the dewing sweat at the nape of his neck, he felt alive. Every cell of blood coursed through him, energized and impatient. They tickled through his veins, counting each and every second away to the hours he still had to endure. Not much longer…not much longer….

Dave would've sworn he heard them hammering at his temples in frustration, but when there came the discordant chiming of the glass bells, he realized it was just someone at his door, barging in without an invitation.

"_Dieu merci_; ya still here," Karkat grumbled as he kicked the door shut behind him. Dave winced a bit at the bells smacking against the wooden frame, but since there were no signs of shattering, he made no comment. "It figure ya'd still be hangin' about instead a preparin' yaself. Who even knows what ah woulda done if ya even had any sense in ya."

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Dave sighed, being very deliberate about his natural accent buried beneath his well-practiced city voice. Karkat glared at him, unimpressed.

"Ah'm here to try an' tell ya for the hundredth time that ya not alone. If ya just let me help—"

"No," Dave said. Though weary on the surface, his tone remained rooted in finality. "I don't know what might happen if you were there. And I won't risk it. So forget it."

"Fine," Karkat snapped. He turned his glare aside and took his hands from his hips, sighing in a short burst as if to shove all the frustration from himself. "Ya sure there's nothin'? Not even fetchin' or set up? Nothin'?"

"I've already gotten it all taken care of," Dave said, getting up from his chair.

"Ya lie and ya know it," Karkat said, scowling. Dave gave him a look of pure exasperation, shoulders sagging as his bright eyes rolled. "Ya not even got ya face on. Let me," Karkat insisted. Dave couldn't help the smirk that flickered across his lips. "Ah'll make ya a bath; be upstairs." And before Dave could open his mouth, Karkat was already on the second floor.

Even if the boy was vexing at the worst possible times, Dave was already missing him. He had no idea if he really would miss Karkat when he was gone but thinking about it in that moment made a tiny ache swell in Dave's heart. Poor child only wanted to be helpful, to be near. Dave couldn't take that kind of honest devotion with him into the ceremony: it would only tether his heart.

He sighed. No, he'd have to be alone. As the muffled roar of water filled the tub upstairs, Dave rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his collar. There came another knock on the door, this time softer and unoffending. Already, he had an inkling and when Dave opened the door, his heart softened at the sight of her.

"Hello, Dave," Rose said, smiling placidly beneath the shade of her parasol. "May I come in? I won't be long." Dave stepped aside and gestured for her to enter.

"I thought you left already," Dave said, shutting the door to the sun and its glowing heat.

"Officially, I have," she said, sitting herself on one of the client chairs. "I called in the delay for my train ticket for a day so I could take care of last minute business." She pulled off her hat and set it on the table, folding her hands in her lap as she continued. "You're my last stop. Just wanted to say goodbye since I doubt I'll see you again."

"Do you want tea?" Dave asked, moving towards the back of the room where the velvet curtain separated the shop from the kitchen.

"Only if it's unsweetened," Rose said. "I don't have the stomach for sugar in this heat."

Dave nodded and ducked behind the partition to pour a glass for rose straight from the icebox. He still didn't know what to say by the time he returned to her.

"Thank you," Rose said as she took the glass he offered. "I'm not stopping once I reach California," she admitted after taking a sip.

"You're not," Dave said.

"I'm escaping to India," Rose said. "There's a dear friend of mine I know from my studies in London. She's an artist, studying fashion for a project she'll be showcasing in Paris next season."

"Good for you," Dave said, a quiet happiness sneaking out through his words. She smirked at him, cleverness gleaming in her eyes.

"Thank you. Nothing gets past you, does it?"

"Not with the things I see," he said.

"Of course," Rose conceded. She took a long drink from her glass. "So I concluded it was due time to give you this." She got up from her seat and produced a stack of folded papers, offering them to Dave. He waited for her to reveal what they were before he took them but all he received was a soft smile and quietly confident eyes.

Dave took the papers and opened them, scanning them briefly. His heart sank.

"Rose, I can't accept this," he said, trying to give the documents back.

"Nonsense," she said, turning away and collecting her things. "They are in your hands. I've already changed the ledger at city hall. The building is yours now and I managed to call in a favor so you don't have to pay taxes on it: you're welcome."

"Rose—"

"Hush," she said. "I may no longer be able to be your benefactor but I can still endow you with a last gift. I know it will serve you well."

"It's wasted on me," Dave insisted though unwilling to fight with her any longer on the subject.

"Do not make little of my decisions, Dave," Rose warned him as she approached the door. "It's the least I can do for abandoning you to pursue a life of sin and flesh."

"I'm sending my soul to the God Realm tonight," Dave confessed. "To be with my brother again."

Rose turned, resting her eyes on Dave. He stood there like an overgrown child: tall and strong but faraway in his sad, sad gaze. She drew near to him and when he was within reach, she took him into her arms, an embrace which he returned dearly.

"Then I'll make the time to pray to you," she whispered. Rose pressed her lips to his forehead and he kissed her hand. A final goodbye and she returned to the Louisiana sunshine, leaving Dave to wonder what he would do with the house he would no longer inhabit.

"If ya done enta-tainin', come up!"

Dave looked up the stairs when Karkat stood with his hands on his hips, looking grumpy as ever. Dave set the deed down on the nearby table and started climbing the stairs, reminding himself that it would not do him any good to cling to this Earth any longer.

~X~

"There you are! Good god, I thought I would never find you in this rumpus!"

James laughed as he reached out to give his cousin a soft pat on the back and let the poor man catch his breath. In the same moment, he took the overstuffed suitcase from where Jake had put it down by his feet and packed it away in his car. The station was positively suffocating with people and James could tell that Jake's patience wouldn't hold beneath their weight for much longer.

"Come on," he said, nudging the sweating man towards the car, "get in; let's for home!"

Jake barked a short laugh to say that he had no issue with leaving as soon as possible, climbing into the passenger seat enthusiastically. James rounded the gleaming blue Cadillac, giving one unthinking glance towards the crowd. Between the crisscrossing paths of people, dust and noise, he saw a familiar face. Rose Lalonde: a sister-in-law.

James paused, thinking in sudden sparks of enthusiasm and maudlin foreshadowing of her departure that he should meet her, one last time. He turned to Jake and signaled him to wait—which earned a hearty eye-roll and a dismissing gesture—and then took a few eager steps back towards the platform. For a moment, he worried that she'd vanished but eventually he caught sight of her again. His smile emerged, a hand lifted and her name began to form on his lips.

But he stopped. A woman had approached Rose. A tall, elegant Sheba with a silk scarf bonneting her black hair and a face painted to perfection. The woman's elven fingers brushed gently beneath Rose's chin and when he looked, James could tell that Rose's own hand had found its resting place at the woman's waist.

The spectacle froze him and he said nothing as they walked away and boarded the first class carriage. If he were a fool, he would've assumed any different explanation. But James Egbert was an intelligent and highly insightful man and Rose—crafty twist that she was—was not as much a mystery to him as she might have been to others.

James walked back to the car with his hat in a slant and his blue eyes vacant to the world around him yet full of questions and the nagging voice at the back of his thoughts that was absolutely demanding answers. Mechanically, he pulled himself into the driver's seat and drove off while Jake began rattling off some string of complaints about his trip.

Moving to California, indeed….

James stopped giving scandal the time of day when Jake mentioned Roxy for the first time.

"Look at you," he'd said, "you're still so torn up about her that you can't even go through the day of her death without turning into a wet blanket."

"No, Jake, it's not that," James insisted, pulling a smile back on. "I'm fine, I promise. Just have…things on my mind."

"That's always it, you sap," Jake said, shaking his head, "always 'something on your mind.' Well, get it off, I say. Your poor boy's been without a mother long enough! Surely you love him enough to know that restoring a woman's touch to your household would do him worlds of good!"

"Jake, not today, please," James sighed. He tried to pull serenity down through the shimmering green of the trees as he turned down the gravel pathway of the Harley property.

"Fine," Jake said. "Tomorrow, I claim my right to harass you all I want. Expect a dinner party before long; I haven't given up yet." The car stopped and Jake made a point of shutting his door with unnecessary gusto before retrieving his suitcase. "You know, I hear that sweet girl Aradia's single. Quite a dish, that one! Maybe I could…."

James shuddered.

"Please, no," he repeated. "If she weren't already too young, I'm sure she's got her eyes on some beau already. And have you met the girl's mother? What a nightmare…." James gave a great sigh and leaned against the car after Jake refused to let him carry the luggage up to the door.

"Mark me, James, if you don't want me shoving broads into your house, then you better nab yourself one of your own! Poor boy, your heart is starved and everyone knows it!"

"I hear ya, Jake, I hear ya."

"Good." Jake put his luggage down once he reached the top of the stairs and stared at James, smirking proudly. "You're a dapper Darb and I'll be damned to see you alone for the rest of your life. Tell John I bought him a souvenir and I'll see you on Monday."

"Night, Jake," James called. The car door shut and by the time James arrived at home, the dusk deepened to a shadowed red and orange. The house was so dark. What little staff James still kept around had gone home for the evening and most of the lights were out save for the grand chandelier that hung in the main hall. James' footsteps made soft echoes against the marble staircase as he ascended and made his way to the bedroom.

West corridor, end of the hall. He paused at the study, its door open, to see if John was still where James had left him. He wasn't. A note on the desk said he'd gone for a malt at the drugstore but then promised he'd be at the church on time. James smiled and folded the note, putting it in his trouser pocket. A sigh and a touch to the picture frame nearest him: James regarded the photograph fondly, looking down at his wife's smile with only the barest plunge of loneliness in him.

"Things are getting better, Roxy," he assured her. "John keeps me strong. He's such a good boy. You would be so proud."

James tugged at his collar and turned away from the desk; he could pray and ache later. One by one the buttons were undone and James had reached his bedroom in time to shed himself of it. He took great care to fold it up and place it neatly in the hamper of dirty clothes that stood outside the bathroom door before picking another shirt from the bureau: the light blue one—Roxy's favorite. James pulled the shirt on while humming his favorite Eddie Morton song. It may have dated him a little, but as long as no one was listening, James didn't mind leaning back on his old favorites.

The day had been an easy one, though heavy with the onset of the summer. James had risen early like he did every morning and gone to his office in the Central Business District. And though he began his routine easily enough, by the time James had bid his secretary good morning, closed the frosted-glass door of his office and settled in the leather chair behind his desk, the man couldn't find the drive in him to do anything but stare out of the window.

James' office window faced Canal Street and the French Quarter with its bright buildings glittering in their candy colors like a playground. There was always a happy commotion that rolled in through the windows, especially during Mardi Gras. The sound of jazz music, laughter and singing every night was always James' call home. And that day, he stared out across the street, thinking of how he was moving on with his life.

Years before, James would always call in sick on the day of Roxy's death and he would keep John home from school so they could spend the day together, usually in the kitchen. But this year, John had asked if he could go to school instead of staying home. And though it might've left his heart sinking at first, James agreed. In the days before the unfortunate anniversary, the gentleman wondered if maybe his commemoration of the date was more obsessive than honorable. Upon deeper consideration, James reasoned that Roxy would probably hate it if he continued to weep over her so religiously. With a quiet laugh, he figured she'd much prefer it if he knock backed a few and threw a party.

On that thought, James poured himself a generous glass of gin and slept tight. Which was partially the reason why he couldn't find it in himself to do anything but stare out of the window the next morning. James took his work slow and steady and left a few hours earlier than usual, telling Aranea to go ahead and take the rest of the day off. Then it was off to the train station to pick up Jake from his business trip.

Which brought him full circle with the reminder of the strange spectacle of Rose Lalonde and the mysterious skirt with the look of angel and their hands all over each other. James blinked quite deliberately as he wrapped the necktie around his upturned collar. Rose had always been an odd girl—rather reclusive and invested in more or less unconventional hobbies—but her presence in John's life was a blessing for James. She was no replacement for Roxy and James never even entertained the thought of marrying her, but she had that magical Lalonde way about her that enchanted John endlessly so her company was a blessing.

James furrowed his brow at his own reflection. Thinking about it, James couldn't actually remember a time when Rose was involved in any degree of courtship with any suitor. She mostly kept to her entrepreneurial pursuits and indulgent expeditions through the French Quarter: things she never really discussed with James on more than a superficial basis. James never faulted her for any of it, despite her habits being a little odd. She was healthy in body and mind and enjoyed her life.

This new realization…it certainly put things in perspective.

James loosened the knot in his tie and shook his head before retreating to the bathroom.

No. Nope, he wasn't going to think about it anymore. God bless Rose Lalonde and whatever unnatural indulgences she wanted to fill her life with. James had more important things to think about. Like John.

He sighed, finding assurance in the thought of his son. Yes, John mattered more than anything or anyone and their vices. Out of every sin and sadness that the world could hold, James could find stability and joy in spite of it all because of the hope in his son's eyes, their endless blue just radiating the love and kindness that James had seen so often in his wife. He couldn't help but smile as he thought about it. John was becoming more and more spirited with each passing year, developing a keen interest in the magic of motion pictures. James could barely ever keep him out of the theaters and sometimes he wondered if John wouldn't end up chasing a dream far off in Hollywood instead of inheriting the family business.

Though the prospect disheartened James quite a bit, he continually nurtured himself with the fact that the future was still a far prospect and what mattered was that John was with him now.

James ran a comb through his gently graying hair and took a steady inhale. Yes, as long as John was by his side, the future could bring anything and James would have the strength for it. Of that he was sure.

Mister Egbert nodded at his reflection in approval and then departed, taking his jacket and hat with him but leaving them off as he returned to the humid dusk. Off to the church so he and John could light a candle for Roxy and then maybe James would take his son out for dinner in the Quarter.

James stood for a moment on the porch and watched as the city came alive with light. Yes, a good celebration was just what the day needed.

~X~

Dave's hands were still aching from where Karkat had gripped them a little too tightly. But Dave thought nothing of it and wandered, barefoot, through the graveyard, looking for his space. He had commissioned his own headstone as soon as he had the means after the incident with Dirk those five years ago. Not that he would actually be laid to rest there, but the investment was worthwhile in Dave's eyes.

He managed to secure the plot where the ceremony had taken place and used it as a convenient excuse for loitering around the cemetery when the keepers had questions. They wouldn't bother him tonight.

At sundown, Dave sat down facing the granite marker that belonged to him, even though it did not bear his name. A small altar had already been set up against the stone, encircled with purple candles. Dave lit all five of them and then pushed a stick of incense into the ground before the altar, lighting it as well.

Dave stared into the small mirror that leaned against the altar, showing him a painted face—bone white, blood red, blacker than the spaces between the stars—a skull wrapped around familiar features. The platinum paleness of Dave's hair framed his burning red eyes like snow highlighting drops of blood. He took a breath and then reached for the small pouch at his belt, filling his hand with ash.

The Vever for Ghede wasn't the most complicated and Dave had practiced it enough to do it with his eyes closed but it would still take a while to get all the lines down. So he sang softly under his breath while the fine dust fell from his fingers in the familiar shapes.

"_Gentle Death, I am drunk from your kisses. Your touch is so soft and your shadow is warm. The moonlight lays out my pillows and I lay out my body, awaiting the sweet whispers from your lips to my ear."_

Something inside Dave's chest was swelling and pushing against his heart with burning fingers as the tilted French mumbled down his tongue. Anticipation, he reasoned. That was all. It had been so long….

The Vever finished, Dave pulled himself up to his knees and with trembling fingers slid his shirt buttons, one by one, through their holes. It seemed a miracle he'd been able to shield himself from the sun for so long, his skin translucent and pearly like it hadn't been in many years. The shirt fell to the ground behind him and Dave resisted the impulse to smear the paint away from his eyes.

Around him, the nighttime wrapped its arms about the city and brought the music of the evening floating across the buildings and treetops to where it became a soft murmur in Dave's ears. The wind ghosted its warm fingers through the curtains of Spanish moss that hung from the old oak trees like silent silver chimes, making only their hush-hush noises while the red horizon closed its weary eyes.

Dave took a soft breath and a chill ran through him, inciting goosebumps and making the pale pink of his nipples tighten. He let his eyes fall shut; thin hands raised and reached towards the tiny flames as his dampened lips parted and he began his spell.

"_Louvri lanmò kite m 'anndan."_

Like dust lifting from hurried footsteps, the twists of magic swirled up from the ground, between the ashen lines of the sigil in the dirt. Glittering curls of red and purple that reached for Dave's fingers and bounced off his skin in bursts of green and silver. Dave breathed in deep; the magic swelled and swayed with him as he got to his feet. The glow spilled from his hands like a fountain overflowing and as the power built, Dave found himself persuaded by it, as he always was. It was impossible to resist the pull of the energies. Once more, his eyes opened and upon sight of the magic in his hands, palms cupped together to hold the ever-flowing mass that poured from every digit, Dave's heart surged within him.

Like the whisper of his accelerating pulse was a herald, the magic flooded, pooling as a great mass of light beneath Dave's feet. Carefully, he began to move with it, only just remembering the words of his enchantment at the last moment to wield it, not just let it push him. Dave danced, his steps weaving a circle about an invisible _poteau-mitan_ and murmuring the entreaties as they flowered in his thoughts.

The darkness stirred and with it, the earth and trees. All noise diminished and still the air was alive with sound, the colors humming in a tangled melody. Dave let it wrap around him and slip against his skin like ice on his fevered flesh. With one whisper from his lips, the nighttime ignited.

The magic constricted and then burst around Dave's body, filing the cemetery with the familiar glow and like the rain would fall to the earth, the colors pulled towards Dave, though never touching. The young conjurer let out a sigh, making a deliberate effort to keep his back straight to as not to disturb the careful balance between himself and the enchantment. The spell licked at his wrists and ankles like tongues of fire and whispered warmly to him. Dave shuddered. It didn't matter how many times he invoked the magic, he could never resist the way it seduced him in turn.

There was no time to lament his weakness; soon the fact would be irrelevant.

Dave took another breath and the twisting spell stroked a long ribbon up the curve of his spine, coaxing his back into an arch as it lifted his feet off the ground. Ecstasy began its birth within Dave's chest, starting as a heated glow right at his heart and making every breath pleasantly heavy within him.

"_Tanpri pote m 'kote nou. Kite m 'rete nan mitan nou tout tan."_

The words trickled from Dave's mouth in a stream of gleaming gold, its prismatic zephyr joining the current of magic already spiraling about him. There was a skip in his heart and Dave paid no heed to the tears slipping down his face, distorting the skull that had been painted on. Even so, the magic drew tight around him in an embracing twist and Dave could feel the whisper sneaking deep into his own mind.

He was patient; he listened. Waited as the ecstasy's heat pushed through his veins and began to fill him from the tips of his digits to the depths of his stomach.

"_Frè?_" Dave reached.

"Well, well, well. What have you got for me now?"

Red eyes flashed open. But there was nothing. No vision of Death's face. Just the dying sky above and its stars as the backdrop to the flow of magic that was keeping Dave suspended. Only its pulse was fading, growing thin and listless. Dave felt himself falling. And then he crashed.

With a groan of pain and his damp flesh smothered in dirt, Dave pushed himself up, smearing the paint on his face something awful as he looked for the source of his the Baron's familiar voice. He _knew _he'd heard it. What he found—at the sharp sound of a gasp and the revitalized hum of color—was a boy. A young man with black hair, his stunning blue eyes looking awed and terrified as Dave's spell coiled around him and raised him into the air with its spectral swirl.

Dave struggled to react, dumbfounded about how the boy had even found him when the space was supposed to be sealed within the Realm Between and then horrified that his magic had abandoned him so readily. But as his wits gathered again, the silhouette of a man began to materialize. A tall gentleman in dapper dress—top hat and cane—all in black. His hair was a soft shock of white and there was a familiar skull perfectly inked into his countenance, eyes glowing like the harvest moon in the autumn evening and his smile sweet as sugar cane. The Baron searched the spectacle of the unknown boy with satisfaction, leaning in to stare deep into his frightened blue eyes.

"Gorgeous; I love him." The voice rang like drums in the dark. "You did a good job, love; must be so proud."

"DIRK!" Dave screamed, scrambling to his feet and tripping on a twisted ankle. The spirit turned and tipped his hat towards Dave in a charming way. He winked at the poor conjurer on the ground.

"Thanks, kiddo. See you around."

The Baron turned away from Dave, wrapped his arm around the boy's waist, and then vanished with him, the magic evaporating in an instant.

The sounds of the city overcame the silence and the earth returned to its sphere; the trees ceased in their dance and became statues. Dave forced himself not to breathe, afraid that he would start hyperventilating. His thoughts continually strayed to the traces of the magic's warmth as they began to fade from his body, leaving him cold in the summer's eve.

Dave stared at his knees, where his slacks had been ripped and dirtied by the fall and his hands, palms up and absolutely empty save for the mud under his fingernails.

The breath that stumbled into Dave's body was haggard and frail: a sob without the energy to actually become one. Cloudy tear drops streaked down the column of Dave's neck, marking his chest with strange lines that would eventually be washed away and forgotten. He closed his eyes and drew another breath, which rattled in him and shivered in his shoulders.

In that moment, a warm breeze, like an arm around him, caressed Dave's back and laughed gently in his ear. Dave opened his eyes again, hoping. He found no one. But a glinting in the moonlight caught his attention. Dave crawled over to it and found a pair of glasses lying in the grass. He said nothing, but picked them up and pocketed them, feeling strangely light of heart when he did. Like he could breathe without breaking down.

For whatever reason, the words 'good boy' echoed gently in Dave's thoughts, though he had no idea why. The words felt like a sweet embrace around him, thawing the frost in his heart. Dave put his shirt back on, deliberately doing up every button before gathering the toppled altar and disappearing into the darkness.

On injured ankle and unsteady spirit, Dave moved between the graves and listened to the gentle whisper that kept turning over in his mind.

_Good boy. Good, Little Boy Rouge. You're such a good boy. _

Even if it was just some residual madness, Dave found a small comfort in the affirmation. He pictured a beautiful lady speaking it softly to him. A lovely dame with hair like yellow satin and eyes the color of spun sugar, dressed in white and pink with pearls around her neck. She had her arms around him the whole way home and when Dave put the glasses he found on his nightstand and laid down in his bed, she sat next to him, telling stories of the magic of the Bayou until he finally found rest.


End file.
